


safe from harm

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha!Martin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bathing/Washing, Episode 181, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega!Jon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: Jon goes into heat at the Upton House.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 30
Kudos: 251





	safe from harm

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for 181 herein! Nothing incredibly major, but if you haven't listened yet, maybe hold off on this one until public release tomorrow.
> 
> I've been struggling with getting a long and pretty elaborate Jon/Web!Martin fic I've been working on to flow so I figured I'd take a break from it and toss together some porn (thanks TMA for giving me an additional setting that isn't the safehouse where such things can be easily set). I can't believe I hadn't written any a/b/o in this fandom yet.

Jon wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed as the lingering remnants of old nightmares slip away into nothingness and the heat of the day creeps in. The sun is high in the sky, and beside him, Martin is gently snoring, face half-squashed into the bed and mouth hanging open. He's a mess, his hair a long, tangled mass of ginger curls, and he has a smudge of blood high on his cheek. He's drooling ever so slightly onto the pillow and has been for a while; there's a damp patch on the pillowcase.

Jon has never seen anything better. He stretches, yawning, and finds that his shoulders ache. He can feel the heaviness of his legs, the twinge of old scars as he moves, the knotted muscles in his back, and his heart is beating slow and steady. He gasps in a breath; he finds, all at once, that he needs to breathe. 

Time _works_ here. It is such an unexpected and strange miracle that he still finds himself unable to process it properly. He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers as he takes in the dirt and grime caked under his fingernails, and as he takes another long, unsteady breath, he finds his eyes filling with tears. Time he has had, not so long ago, even though it feels as though they have been traveling through the apocalypse for years, and maybe they have. But he feels _human_ here. 

He curls in on himself, one hand muffled over his mouth to deaden the sound as he sobs, shaking all over. He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be human. It feels good; everything hurts, and he can feel every step he has taken since he left the safehouse in Scotland in his muscles, but all of this feels real in a way that the world hasn't for so long.

“... Jon?” Martin asks blearily, eyes half-opened, and then he sits up all at once. “Jon, are you alright?”

“I, I'm fine,” Jon chokes out, still shaking all over, and Martin shifts towards him and wraps him up tight in both arms, letting him sob against Martin's chest. “I'm fine.”

“You're not,” Martin says, holding him tighter, and he goes limp in the soft warmth of Martin's arms. “What's wrong?”

“I think this place... I think I'm human here,” Jon says, haltingly, voice half-muffled against Martin's chest. “I'd forgotten. Oh, god.” 

“Oh,” Martin says, quiet, and holds him tight until the shaking passes. His lips are pressed to the top of Jon's head, and Jon can feel his smile. “Is it good?”

“It's—different. It's just, I'd missed it.” 

“Yeah.”

They stay in bed, wrapped around each other, and Jon lets the shuddering beat of his newly-quickened heart count the moments as they pass.

*

“How long do you think we've been asleep?” Martin asks, finally. He stretches, wincing at the ache in his own muscles, and looks down at himself. He's wearing an undershirt with stains from half a dozen nightmare worlds and a pair of faded boxers with little cartoon cows on them, and his hands and face, the only exposed parts of his skin during the journey, are _filthy._ The sheets have faint smudges left behind by the both of them. 

“No idea,” Jon says, and laughs a little at the concept. He genuinely does have no idea. Time is passing here, and he knows nothing about it beyond the position of the sun in the sky. 

Martin smiles at him. “We should get a bath. Maybe two baths. Christ, I'm a mess.” 

“We both are,” Jon says, and barely manages to get out of bed for the stiffness of his legs. It feels like he's been walking a thousand miles. Maybe he has been. The bite from Daisy, nearly fully healed now, twinges painfully. 

Martin looks him up and down and then, without another word, bends down and scoops him up into his arms, and Jon yelps. He doesn't fight it, though, lets himself be carried through the door to the attached bathroom, arms looped around Martin's neck for stability, and he leans in and gives Martin a quick peck on the cheek before he's set down. Even now, after all this time, Martin flushes a little as he does it. 

The bathroom cabinets are stocked with a hundred different items, a brightly-colored assortment of little bottles and bars and scrubs, and Martin surveys them all with a critical eye as Jon begins to strip out of his old, grimy clothes and turns the tap until the water is hot. It heats up quickly, and the pressure is strong, and before he lets the tub start filling up, he scrubs his hands until they're half-raw, washing dirt and blood and grime down the drain. 

“Bubble bath?” Martin asks, and Jon nods, looking up at him with a soft smile. Martin takes an enormous cream-colored bottle and uncaps it, pouring the soap in, and he and Jon both watch for a moment as the bright white bubbles begin to foam up around the rushing water. It smells faintly sweet, in a way Jon can't quite place. 

He pushes himself to standing long enough to unbutton his shirt and tug down his pants, unable to muster any self-consciousness with a body this exhausted, and when he turns back to face Martin as he steps out of them fully Martin's cheeks are pink. He keeps his eyes firmly trained on Jon's face instead of lower, and Jon steps closer, fingers inching underneath Martin's undershirt to tug it up and off. Martin's skin is so hot against his, and Martin's eyes close for a moment as he does it, his brow knitting, and Jon can't help but smile a little wider at it. Martin's so much bigger than him, and he's not able to get Martin's shirt all the way off properly on his own, and when Martin's hands join his to help him along they're still for a long moment, fingers entwined, before Martin squeezes his hands, just once, and strips down the rest of the way.

The tub is big enough for both of them, and it's almost too hot when Jon first dips a careful toe in, but the heat is a wonder on his aching muscles, and the pain ebbs away as he settles in, tucking himself close to one end to make sure Martin has plenty of room for himself. Martin closes his eyes and sighs as he sits down opposite Jon, lost in bliss. It's been so long since either of them have bathed; he'd forgotten how wonderful it is. 

Jon shifts around in the tub as best he can and then settles backwards, tucking himself into the space between Martin's legs with his back to Martin's chest, and Martin wraps both arms around him and holds on. They stay there for a long moment, skin to soapy-wet skin, letting the grime of the apocalypse soak off them in slow, gentle waves. 

“Wish it had one of those, like, jet things,” Martin says, motioning to the side of the tub, and Jon hums out a contented agreement, tracing spiraling patterns into the mass of bubbles around them. 

Martin reaches for one of the washcloths neatly stacked at the side of the tub and rubs soap into it, a coarse, brown bar that smells faintly of honey and oatmeal. “Let me?” he asks, and when Jon nods, he starts running the washcloth up and down Jon's arms, slow and steady, scrubbing away the layers of built-up grime. They'll have to empty the water in the tub and run it again before they're truly clean, with everything that's built up here, but that's alright. Time works here, but it doesn't outside of this little bubble of calm; the apocalypse will still be there when they're done with this bath. It can wait. 

Jon is lulled half to sleep by the movements, the rasp of the washcloth against his skin as Martin moves from his arms to rubbing slow circles into his chest, the steaming heat surrounding the both of them, the faint, sweet smell of the bubbles. He shifts backwards, a little, bumping up against the hardness against his back, and nearly laughs at Martin's alarmed little yelp. 

“It's fine, Martin,” Jon says, twisting around enough to kiss him, gentle and chaste. The water will be filthy by the time they're done; this isn't the time and place for this, but there are plenty of beds in this place not covered by the grime they left behind. Something for later, maybe. 

“Sorry, you're just. Um, very naked.”

“Yes, that will happen in the bath,” Jon teases, and Martin hmphs, but he's not doing a very good job of hiding his smile. “Later?”

Martin's eyes brighten. “Later,” he repeats, and goes back to the soothing motions of the cloth, slow circles down Jon's torso and along his thighs. His pulse is starting to pick up too, and the world for a moment goes bright and a little hazy. It's a familiar feeling, but not in a way that he can place right now. Not quite just straightforward arousal.

“Let me wash your hair next?” Martin asks, and Jon nods , pulling away long enough to dunk his hair under the water to get it properly wet. The water isn't as dirty as he expected, but then, now that he thinks about it, there's not much guarantee that all of the dirt on them was actually real. Dream logic, and all. 

Martin slowly works the shampoo into his hair, his big, calloused hands massaging Jon's scalp, and the scent of coconut fills the air, stronger than before. Before Jon knows it, he's drifting back off to sleep, lulled by the gentle motions, the scratch of Martin's fingernails through his long hair, the firm pressure, and he wakes himself back up with the volume of his own snore, startling awake all at once as Martin is reaching to fill a cup to start rinsing his hair out. 

“Close your eyes,” Martin says, a little gleam of mischief in his own, and Jon does.

In the end, they spend nearly an hour washing up in the bath, and then, when the tub is emptied and refilled, Martin pouring in epsom salts and a little perfumed cake of something that makes the water go faintly purple, another hour just letting themselves soak. Jon feels like an entirely different person as he climbs out, stretching his muscles and wondering at how much the ache has faded. There are fresh towels hanging up for the two of them, white and enormous and fluffy, and Jon wraps one around his hips, another draped around his shoulders like a cape, enjoying how soft they are. Even with the size of them, Martin's are almost too small for him, and he tucks his towel in very carefully, knotting and unknotting the fabric twice in a nervous attempt to get it to stay.

“Do we even still _have_ clean clothes?” Jon asks, as they make their way back to the bed, and he's barely finished his sentence when he sees the pile of clean, neatly folded fresh laundry on the bed, Martin's jacket and button-down and Jon's cardigan and both of their trousers and pants, freshly washed. He blinks at it. 

“Annabelle?” Martin asks, grimacing. They don't really need to ask, though. It doesn't seem like something Salesa would have bothered with. 

Jon sighs. “I don't like it either. Let's get dressed and go find something to eat,” he says, and almost as if on cue, his stomach growls. It's been a very, very long time since he needed to eat real food, and the feeling is so sudden and startling he nearly trips over his own feet. 

The food is Annabelle's too, but they'll have to make do. 

*

Salesa both is and isn't what Jon expected. He's practical, good-humored, deeply dangerous in a way that makes the hairs at the back of Jon's neck stand up, and he takes to Martin immediately. When Jon reaches for compulsion and fails, he laughs, and so does Martin, and Jon tries to not let panic rise within himself, reaching out to a god that is all of a sudden no longer present. The compulsion has been part of the way he interacts with the world for so long he's genuinely forgotten what it's like to speak and know that a human he's talking to can _lie_. 

It aches, a little, like a phantom limb, but Salesa does seem honest with them, and the hospitality he offers is something that, if nothing else, Martin deserves. A break from all of this. From everything Jon has put him through, so far. He's faintly dizzy, but in a distant way; nothing to worry about yet. As Salesa tells his story, it doesn't fill him, like it would normally, but he loses himself in the words anyway. For a moment he loses himself altogether, and he blinks back into awareness, frowning. His whole body feels—warm, and the dizziness is strengthening, if anything, his heart starting to beat a little faster. 

When Salesa offers to let them stay for a while, he accepts, even as something at the back of his mind goes _something is wrong._

“Oh, and Martin,” Salesa says, as they turn to walk away. “Keep it down, hm? Take one of the bedrooms at the back if you need to sort him out.”

“Excuse me?” Martin asks, voice pitching up, and then he sniffs the air and his eyes widen, turning to Jon with his mouth hanging faintly open.

“What?” Jon asks, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. Muddled. 

“I'll—um. I'll tell you in a sec, okay? Just. He's right, we should go back upstairs.” 

Jon lets Martin bundle him away, and he gets distracted for a long moment by how warm Martin's hand feels in his. By how good Martin smells. He crowds in close to Martin, trying to surround himself with the scent, the coconut from the shower lingering but with something else underneath. He needs more of it, needs to just--

Martin hurries the two of them along faster before Jon can give into impulse and lick the exposed skin of Martin's neck, and it's as he's jostled that he comes back into proper awareness and realizes he was about to _lick Martin's neck._ Oh. Oh, no.

“Oh, no,” he says again, out loud this time, and Martin sighs and stops long enough to pick Jon up and carry him the rest of the way back to the bedroom. 

“Yeah,” Martin says. 

Time is moving again; he needs to breathe and eat again. It hadn't occurred to him that his heat might come calling as well. 

*

“What do you want me to do?” Martin asks, setting Jon down gently on the bed and sighing as Jon reaches for him on impulse, trying to draw him back in, get him closer, higher thoughts fuzzing in and out in between these little animal impulses of _more, warm, good_. “I can—go, if you want to ride this out on your own? I don't want to take advantage or anything, but, um.” 

“Don't go,” Jon blurts, letting go of Martin so he can strip out of his cardigan. It's so warm in here, and he can feel the sweat beginning to bead up on his skin. Every movement sends a shock of sensation through him—the sheets against his skin, the drag of fabric as his shirt comes off. He presses a hand against himself to soothe the ache inside that's starting to spiral upwards and consume him in a haze, and Martin stares, his eyes very dark. He's biting his lip. Jon wants those teeth in him instead. 

Outside of heat, he doesn't think about his own body like this, mostly. Doesn't like the way heat consumes him either, makes him mindless and desperate and needy for things he'd never ask for otherwise. But the shock of being _human_ again, or at least feeling like it, is overriding everything else, and at least this once, he wants to know what it would be like with Martin. They're walking into something they barely even know the shape of when they get to London. They might not have another chance. 

“You're sure?” Martin asks, wringing his hands together. “Please be sure.”

“I'm sure,” Jon says, unbuttoning his trousers and yanking them down with his pants in one swift movement. Another minute and he'd be starting to soak through them. He can feel his pulse pounding, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out everything else except for the desire to have Martin closer. To feel all of that skin against his own. “Please.” 

Martin curses, face gone red, and his eyes close as he scents the air. “God, Jon, you smell—I.” He strips out of his own clothes so quickly Jon sees a button go flying, and Jon is still coherent enough to laugh a little at that until Martin leans down and kisses him and then all higher thoughts are gone from him entirely. Martin kisses him slow and gentle, at first, soft lips moving against his own and tongue teasing in, his hands cradling both sides of Jon's face like Jon is something fragile and precious, and Jon loves him so much in this moment that his heart aches with it, a physical pain. Martin is being careful. 

It's not what he needs. Jon growls a little and slides his fingers into Martin's hair and tugging, keeping him close, and Martin gives into it and leans both of them backwards until he's pinning Jon to the bed with his bulk, keeping him trapped in place as he kisses Jon hard and deep, his tongue moving against Jon's. He breaks the kiss just long enough to gather Jon's hands in his and pin him down, both of Jon's skinny wrists held above his head, gripped in one large hand. Martin can hold him down with one hand, and something in him goes hot and fierce at the thought. He pushes his hips up against Martin's, moaning into Martin's mouth as his cock drags hard and slick against the soft curve of Martin's belly and the hardness of his own cock, but it's not enough. He needs _more_. Needs something in him, and the ache of emptiness is starting to crowd out all of his other thoughts.

“Please,” he manages, and Martin grins down at him, face flushed and curls in his eyes, looking so beautiful Jon could cry with it. His eyes are tearing up, a little, in desperation or frustration or maybe both, and Martin leans down to kiss him again, soft and sweet, just once, before drawing back. Martin's free hand slides down between them, wrapping around his cock, and Jon pushes up into the pressure with a wild noise, so close with it so suddenly the rush of blood makes him go light-headed, and it takes two firm strokes before he's _gone_ , coming slick and messy between them, painting Martin's belly with streaks of white. It feels like it goes on forever, the agonizing peak of it lengthening as Martin strokes him through the aftershocks, and he squirms with overstimulation, unsure whether to keep chasing the feeling or try to pull away. 

Martin lets go of his hands, then, shifting down the bed to spread Jon's thighs wider, pushing his knees up so his hole is exposed, and Jon closes his eyes and _howls_ as Martin dives in and tastes the slick mess there, tongue lapping over his hole and then inside, the heat of it so sudden and shocking inside Jon that he nearly comes again right then, fingers twisting in the sheets and rucking them up as he tries and fails to stop himself pushing back against Martin's face. Martin makes a deeply contented noise, looking up at Jon with cherry-red lips before diving back in, fucking Jon with his tongue until Jon peaks again, hips rising as his whole body shakes with it.

Martin doesn't stop, keeps licking at him, two fingers sliding in alongside his tongue, long and thick, and Jon clenches around it, savoring the feeling of fullness. It's not enough, but it takes the edge off the burning ache within him, and he's too far gone to be embarrassed about the noises tumbling out of his mouth as he rocks his hips, trying to get Martin deeper. Martin presses in with a third finger, teasing at his entrance with a fourth, and Jon can't _think_ , can't process, is lost entirely to instinct and wet heat and desperation. Martin's hips shift against the bed as he works his fingers and his tongue inside Jon, and Jon slides his fingers into Martin's hair and holds on, letting himself tumble over the edge a third time, his whole belly a slick mess of come.

“More,” Jon manages, in a moment of lucidity, or the best he can muster, at least, and Martin looks up at him, eyes blown black, his face a slick mess. 

“Do you want—I can, with my hand, or--” Martin hesitates. 

In any other moment, Jon would be embarrassed to say it, but he's riding on sensation and instinct, and so the words come out of his mouth before he can second-guess himself. “Your knot,” he says, still shifting to fuck himself on Martin's fingers as he speaks. “I want your knot in me.” 

“Fuck,” Martin says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Right. Okay. Can you turn around for me? Hands and knees is—easier for this.” 

He draws his fingers out and Jon whines at the loss, trying to reach for Martin again, nearly too distracted to remember what to do, but he takes the thought and grips hold of it tight just long enough to turn over, propping himself up on his elbows, spine curved and hips up, keeping his legs spread just like he knows Martin wants. He doesn't have to wait long; Martin leans down and kisses the base of his spine, soft and affectionate, before surrounding him entirely, chest pressed to his back, and starting to press in. Martin's _big_. He knew that, on some level, but it's one thing to know and another to feel it as the huge, solid weight of his cock starts to sink inside Jon, the stretch aching in a way that is exactly what he needs right now. Martin presses in all at once, and the sudden pressure and fullness of it makes Jon come again even before Martin is fully inside him, clenching around him desperately. Martin reaches out and puts his hands over Jon's, entwining their fingers as he gives Jon that last aching inch, the bulk of his knot already starting to form, and Jon closes his eyes and moans, rocking back into it, trying to keep him deep inside. 

“You feel--” Martin takes a shaky breath, nearly a sob. “Oh, god.” He pulls out just a little and Jon whines, fingers tightening in the sheets, before sheathing himself again, his thighs trembling against Jon's. Jon nods, mindless, and pushes back into Martin, lost in the fullness of Martin inside him, in the way his vision goes white as Martin fucks him harder, deeper, his cock pushing slick and hot inside him, making a space for himself. It feels like it goes on forever. Jon comes and then comes again, trying to keep Martin inside, squirming on the length of his cock, and as he feels Martin's knot start to thicken, he bares his neck, trying to urge Martin on. Martin pounds into him, hard, the sound of skin against skin louder than the little whining breaths Jon lets out on every exhale, and he leans down and bites _hard_ , hard enough to hurt, and Jon knows nothing but sensation for a long, agonizingly good moment as Martin's knot swells and catches inside him. 

He tries to speak, and no words come out. Martin digs his teeth in a little harder as he shudders through the aftershocks, worrying at the skin, and Jon closes his eyes and lets himself feel it as Martin fills him up with come. Martin rocks gently back and forth as he breeds him, little shocks of sensation sparking through his system. It feels deeply satisfying on a level he can't explain, being trapped under Martin's weight, claimed and bred and _filled_ like this, and after a long moment, when he can think again, Jon presses his head back against Martin's, rubbing against it affectionately, and says, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Martin says, and then makes a lovely little noise as his hips shift again. “That was—you were—oh my god. Are you okay?” 

“Great,” Jon confirms, and Martin gently gathers him up and rolls them onto their sides, still connected, and Jon can't help but reach down and put a hand over the flat of his own stomach, trying to feel Martin from the outside. Martin's hand joins his and presses down a little, and _oh_ , he can feel it. Just a little, with Martin this deep in him, but. 

“Let me know if you need it again, okay?” Martin asks, pressing a kiss to the sweat-slick nape of Jon's neck. “I'm here for you.” 

“I know,” Jon says, smiling. “We'll need another bath later.” 

“There are five kinds of bubble bath,” Martin stage-whispers, his voice full of mischief. “We can try _all_ of them while we're here.” 

“Let's,” Jon says, squeezing his hand. 

*

They'll have to move on, and soon. Annabelle is still an ever-present threat, and the apocalypse could wait, but the Eye knows where it wants Jon, and it's not here. Sooner rather than later, that absence will make itself known.

For now, well. He's keen to try out a couple more bubble baths.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [nacre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802733) by [Maiden_of_the_Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon)




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